


The Rose of Winter

by kingkraken



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, First Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post ADWD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingkraken/pseuds/kingkraken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The great war is over. The Others that threatened the land are gone, never to return. Summer has come and gone and cruel winter is come again. And in the cold heart of winter, love will bloom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rose of Winter

The boy stood on the side of a hill. Tall pines loomed around him, but sunlight shafted through the darkness, touching the brown needles that carpeted the forest floor. It was beautiful, so beautiful. Especially after the horrors of what happened before. When man fought monster, when fire clashed with ice, when the earth ran red with the blood of men and women. He had heard the cries for a hero, the Prince that was Promised, Azor Ahai, The Last Hero, Mother of Dragons; he heard prayers for the Warrior, R'hllor, Mother Rhoyne, the Drowned God; every god that ever existed was called upon. But it seemed that no help would come. 

Through his many eyes, he saw flashes of armies preparing for battle; of a dour black-cloaked grey-haired man heading a mass of wildling spearwives into battle; of another black-cloaked boy giving a rousing war cry to many other black-clothed men; of an auburn-haired young woman, who looked vaguely similar to someone he once knew, wearing smoke-grey armour and carrying a dark sword, telling her soldiers that though she was not a king, she had the heart and stomach of one, and would ride with them into battle. Terrible things, he saw as well- tall, eerie creatures made of ice and cold and despair making noises that may have been a call to arms, but sounded like ice cracking beneath one's feet, and filled the boy's heart with dread. 

He had so many eyes, and they showed him so many things, things that he wished he hadn't seen. He saw the clash of swords from high above as he flew. The spearwives fought valiantly, but for every Other they slew, five spearwives were slain. The dour-faced man was dealt a killing blow, but before he could rise again, the boy found himself looking at the face of the boy who'd led the men of the Night's Watch into battle. He was backed into a tree, still holding one of the strange swords, but his left forearm was gone. His face was one of grave determination as the sound of ice breaking grew louder and louder. Then the other boy was gone, replaced by the woman warrior. Her horse was dead, and she was surrounded on all sides by shifting shapes. She spun around, her helmet gone, her red hair flashing brightly in the light that emanated from her sword. The boy in the tree thought he had known her once, but a long time ago, but he was not certain. There was a sudden shift in the trees, and before he could see the woman's reaction, the world went black for a very long time. 

But it was no longer black. Now, he stood in a forest, as the birds sang loudly around him. A light summer breeze caressed his face, as warm as breath, but scented with pine needles. It seemed perfect, but something was wrong. The boy could sense it. He felt the earth beneath him ripple, tear, and suddenly crack. Hot amber sand poured out, pooling around him, moving like liquid gold, engulfing everything in its wake. Including him. He struggled, flailing, trying not to drown in the sea of sand. But it was no use. The boy felt his limbs deaden, and his lungs fill with sand as the sand covered the sky and he sank...

“Bran!” A voice, one he half-remembered, calling a name he thought he knew. It wasn't him. 

The voice was insistent. “Bran! Wake up!” It was a woman's voice. Perhaps she was calling to him. But he wasn't Bran. He hadn't been Bran for a long time. 

The world was still black, but he felt an arm shake him. Someone he had once knew. 

“Bran! Wake up, please! A raven's come. The letter is for you.” 

Slowly he opened his heavy eyes. A woman's face appeared before him. She had long brown hair and moss-coloured eyes. Meera, he thought. But that couldn't be right. Meera was a girl the last time he'd set eyes on her. This was a woman grown. Her hair was longer, her body more softly curved, she was taller than she had been... Bran stirred, trying to push himself up more than he was in his weirwood throne. He had grown, too, though he was very thin, he noticed. His face felt odd, and he reached a hand to touch it, and was shocked when he encountered a slight beard. How long have I been dreaming?

“How long?” he tried to ask Meera, but his voice was broken and wheezy from not using it. It was lower than he expected, like a man, not the boy he thought he still was. 

Meera thought for a moment. “I don't know for certain, but I believe it was quite a while.”

“How long?” He could hear the panic rising in his voice. Bran could not remember being any older than three and ten. 

Concern crept into Meera's eyes. “I- I suppose it must have been three years. I'm not certain.”

Bran's eyes widened in shock. Three years? Three years! He pushed himself forward out of the throne, expecting to walk like he did in his dreams. Bran's legs collapsed underneath him and he fell to the floor, humiliated. He began to cry softly, remembering all that had happened. Everyone he knew and loved was dead by now, surely. He knew of the deaths of his mother and Robb years prior. He thought of the woman he had seen- it must have been Sansa, he realised, the warrior with her auburn hair. But the Sansa he knew would never have fought, nor led an army. And now she lay dead. 

Meera crouched and gently touched his shoulder. “There was a letter- I told you. It's from Jojen.” 

Bran wiped his nose and looked up at her. “Where is Jojen?”

“Jojen and Hodor left many moons ago to find out what happened. Jojen knew he wouldn't die- he's seen his death, and it happens at Greywater Watch, nowhere else. He thought he should try to find other people. He needed Hodor to help him. I thought it best to stay with you in case you awoke.”

There was a moment of silence. “How am I not dead? You know I cannot eat while skinchanging.”  
“I gave you broth to swallow.”

Bran thought of her hands touching his face, and felt himself blush. “Oh. Thank you.”

She shrugged, as if it were nothing, and produced a rather crumpled letter from her pocket. Bran took it, mumbled his thanks, and looked to see the wax seal. It was a muddy green colour, embossed with the image of a lizard lion. House Reed. With trembling fingers, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter. 

“What does it say?” Meera peered eagerly over his shoulder at the rather ungainly writing. 

“We've won. We've won! They're safe, it's over, it's alright, everything is good! Don't you see? We won!” Bran flung his arms around Meera and hugged her. She patted his shoulder and wriggled out of his grasp. 

“I don't understand.”

Bran cleared his throat as he scanned the parchment. His voice was unsteady, but he began anyways.

“It's Jojen. He writes from Winterfell. They made it back- they're safe. Winterfell is being rebuilt, and your lord father and lady mother are there. Sansa is there, as is Rickon- he was in Skagos- Stannis' onion knight brought him back, apparently. But...” he broke off and looked desperately at Meera. Her green eyes were filled with concern. “What's wrong, Bran?”

Bran felt tears pool in his eyes. He took a deep breath and continued. “It's Jon... he's gone Meera. He's dead, like Father and Mother and Robb and Arya and and and...” He broke off, unable to finish, and felt himself begin to shudder and sob. It wasn't so much his half-brother's death that saddened him- it was that he realised he could no longer fully remember those who had died. They were there, but they were mere shadows of who they had been. He remembered his father's smile, and his mother's bright hair, and Robb's laugh and Jon's sullen stare and Arya's rebellious streak that was a mile wide, but that was all. No more. They had been reduced to nothing more than fading memories. It hurt. Meera wrapped her arms around him and held him as he breathed in great shuddering gasps of breath. 

Meera glanced at the letter. “What else does it say?” she inquired. 

Bran sniffled pathetically, embarrassed to be crying. He was no longer a boy. He was a man, the same age as Robb when he had marched off to war. When Robb became King in the North. Bran was old enough to know better. He looked at the childish scrawl of Jojen's writing on the parchment. 

“Jojen says that... oh gods, Meera. Oh gods.”

“What does Jojen write?” Her brow furrowed as she read. “As per King Robb Stark's final wishes, which were kept in my father's custody until such a time that it was safe, you, Bran, are his heir. Therefore I, Jojen of House Reed, do proclaim you, Brandon of House Stark, the King in the North.' You're king, Bran!” She gave him a smile so full of warmth Bran felt himself smile back at her. She is so beautiful. It gave him courage. I suppose I will be married soon, for better or worse. 

He turned back to the letter. “Jojen states that we should set off immediately and at the Wall we will be met by a guard to escort us back to Winterfell...” he paused and turned white. “Meera?”

“Whatever the matter is wrong?” she stared into his eyes trying to see what he was so afraid of. 

“Meera? Jojen... Jojen says that- that I am to be wed. To you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I felt that there weren't enough Bran/Meera stories out there, and they are one of my favourite pairings. This turned out to be a lot longer than expected, so watch this space!


End file.
